


Bedtime Stories

by Maryassassina



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 14:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16788523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryassassina/pseuds/Maryassassina
Summary: Simcoe, Lola and Cat live together in NYC after fleeing Yorktown on board of the Bonetta. No smut, just fluff!





	Bedtime Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvsn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvsn/gifts).



> Strictly speaking this is an epilogue to "Of Hound Dogs and Wildcats" ( or rather: an epilogue to the epilogue ;)
> 
> I'm posting this as a standalone fic as it is a birthday gift for the beautiful tvsn, who is not only an incredibly talented author but also one of the loveliest people I had the pleasure to meet here at AO3.
> 
> Happy Birthday Tav!!!
> 
> I wish I could give you something better than this silly little piece of fluff, but you asked for it, so here it is. 
> 
> Enjoy! And have a wonderful birthday♥

_New York, March 1782_

Leaning heavily on his cane, he descends the stairs down into the parlor.

The sun behind the windows is standing high in the sky, it must be almost noon. Once more he has slept well into the day.

The two women, Lola relaxing on the sofa, Cat sitting across her at a table crammed with their study material, look up at him simultanously.

He smiles. "Ladies."

"Lord Simcoe." comes the answer in two voices.

Groaning, with a hand in her back, Lola puts herself into a sitting position and the book in her hand down. "Thank God. I've had enough of reading for today. My head's swimming from all the- what was it this time?" She looks down at the book's cover and grimaces contemptously. " _Virgil_."

"You asked me to teach you and I said I would," the smaller woman across her gives an unapologetic shrug. "I did not say it would be easy. Especially since we have to make do with the books John provides-"

"Yes, yes," Lola mutters and strokes her sizeable belly. "But it must be supper time by now. And an empty stomach doesn't study well."

"I'm quite sure the saying goes the other way around." Cat replies with a grin.

"And _I'm_ quite sure you promised me apple pie for dessert, miss smarty-pants."

Lola licks her full lips. "And cream. Lots of it. Cat's a horrible teacher but her baking skills are not to be scoffed at. Wouldn't you like apple pie, too, John? "

"I-"

"I'm a great teacher," the other woman clarifies. "And I don't think ungrateful students deserve dessert. Wouldn't you agree, John?"

"Well, I-"

Two pairs of eyes, one green, one black, watch him, once more awaiting a Solomonic judgement from him.

He clears his throat. "I think it is very nice of Cat to teach you how to read," he turns to Lola, and then, seeing her irritable frown. "And I would love apple pie for dessert, too."

He _hates_ apples.

He has been living in the 'guest room' upstairs of the house the girls purchased upon their arrival in York City for almost half a year now.

His injuries healed so far that he could leave the infirmary, but not well enough to risk the journey home to England on a ship for several weeks.

That was in November. Now it's March and he is still here.

On paper, he is still the commander of the Queen's Rangers.

In reality, there are no longer any battles into which he could lead the men who have made it back after the battle of Yorktown - provided he would still be able to mount a horse, which he isn't.

The war is not over- not _yet_ \- but peace negotiations are already being undertaken and meanwhile, the remaining British troops in America, still a force of 300 000 men in total, are restricted from launching further offensives.

One by one, the rats are beginning to desert the sinking ship.

Cornwallis and Arnold are back in London already, the latter reportedly trying to convince the King to renew the fighting, unsuccessfully as of yet.

Clinton, having been replaced as commander in chief by Sir Guy Carleton, is going to ship out homewards soon as well.

It was convenient to move into the place that was bought from his money, and into the care of the two women that had followed him to York City and looked after him with such devotion ever since.

Officially, they are his landladies -or his nurses, or housekeepers, depending on who asks - but of course a gentleman living under the same roof with two unmarried women of dubious reputation must be a constant subject of gossip for their neighbours, and the more than transparent disguise became completely implausible when it turned out that both of them were pregnant.

According to his calculations, Cat must be five months pregnant now, and Lola at least seven, and they have never looked lovelier to him, a little puffy perhaps, but otherwise sporting the radiant look of advanced pregnancy.

Lola with her huge belly and well-rounded breasts resembles a goddess of fertility, and Cat has put on quite some weight as well, which suits her just fine like her now longer hair.

She still looks her namesake, but now more like the cat that got the cream than the wary little stray she has once been, ready to bare her fangs and claws and attack at the slightest provocation.

How he managed to impregnate the both of them ( the possibility that Lola's baby might not be his never even crosses his mind ) is beyond him- it was only that one time with Cat and he would have expected Lola to take appropriate precautions.

Perhaps, he muses, it has been the unconscious desire to create life with so much death around him; to leave a piece of himself behind when it looked as if he might well lose his life as well.

He almost did.

And many of his men have not returned from Yorktown at all, too many.

Some have been killed in the battle, others made prisoners of war after Cornwallis' capitulation.

Some of them defected to the enemy in order to evade imprisonment, just as he told them to- only to try and escape at the very first opportunity. Some were caught in the attempt and executed.

They try all over again anyway.

It troubles him greatly that those brave souls take such risks in order to rejoin a unit that will likely not see another operation, but he can't do anything for them from here, and so he forces himself to focus at the responsibilities at close hand: He is to become a father of two.

And while this prospect delights him beyond words, the current circumstances could not be worse.

Firstly, he is married to neither Cat nor Lola ( and he can hardly marry them both- as far as he is informed, bigamy is still against the law in both England and the colonies ), the war is as good as lost, meaning he would soon have to live on the reduced pay of non-wartime service and no longer have the means to feed two more hungry mouths- let alone four.

And hungry they are always, his two beautiful girls, and of rather refined taste at that.

"Alright. Apples."

Frowning, Lola bends over the table and her pen scratches on what looks like an already considerable shopping list.

Writing those is part of her daily exercise, cooking is Cat's and the shopping always falls to him.

"And cream." She looks up at him. "Can we have raisins, too? I love raisins."

He smiles. "If you can write it correctly."

"Of course I can," Lola snorts." So, lets see- we should have everything for the pastry, what about a starter? I think I would like oysters. What d'you think Cat?"

"Oysters?" he gasps out in disbelief before Cat can voice her opinion. "No way. You don't want oysters, trust me. They are- disgusting. Have you ever had oysters before?"

"No, I haven't," Lola shrugs. "But I want them _now._ "

She lifts a brow and curls her lips into a mischievous grin. "And isn't it said that they have an aphrodisiac effect?"

"We're running low on spices, too," Cat adds. "For the punch. Cloves and cinnamon. Oh and sugar, of course."

"Of course," he echoes through gritted teeth.

Sighing, he produces a purse from his breast pocket and inspects its content.

Upon learning about her condition, it had of course been out of the question that Lola returned to her former business, and the same applied for Cat- he really wouldn't have wanted her to catch one of the contagious diseases in the infirmary where she had originally planned to keep working as a nurse.

And even though she and Lola now and then do some sewing for the few of their neighbours who still speak to them and do not consider their aquaintance morally harmful, the major part of their daily expenses falls to him.

As it should be.

After all, he is the man of the house.

If only a new commission were in sight already-

Lola follows his gaze to his pitiably flat purse."We could still sell the horse," she suggests helpfully. "Not that it would have been of much use lately-"

"No!" he says quickly- and a little sharply. They had this conversation before. "Not the horse. Not Salem!"

And then, more quietly, "I will be able to ride again soon."

"Of course you will," Cat picks up the shopping list, rises from her chair, walks towards him and puts it in his hand, along with a tender kiss on his pinched lips.

"Don't worry." she smiles. "We'll manage. Now hurry. A walk in the fresh air will do you good."

The dinner is chicken pastry and potatoes, with apple pie and cream for dessert.

And oysters.

After that, they sit by the fireside and sip their hot punch.

"Well," Lola says at last. "It's getting dark."

In order to save candles, they usually go to bed early.

Cat looks up from her needlework. "Today is tuesday," she says with a small wink. "He's all yours."

When he moved in, the girls had agreed among themselves to take turns sharing his bed. He had not been consulted.

His sexual appetite had returned as his wounds began to heal- for which he is grateful- but the same cannot yet be said of his stamina.

And thus- and despite the original agreement-for the most part, his nights are spent much less scandalously than their neighbours would suspect, with the three of them snuggled up together more or less chastely under the warm blanket of his huge bed.

"Let's all sleep in John's room again," Lola decides as expected. "It's the warmest in the house and his bed is the biggest and most comfortable. Would you read to us again, John? But no dead Romans please."

"How about Shakespeare?" Cat suggests. "We could read in assigned roles."

"Shakespeare is dead as well." he dares to object.

Lola lifts her hand and swipes his objection away. "Yea, but he doesn't _sound_ dead."

"And wasn't Philomena _terrific_ in 'Much Ado about Nothing'?" Cat sighs wistfully. "Too bad she retired from the stage."

He puts the manuscript he has been writing on down and grimaces slightly.

Since back in York City both girls had developped an enthusiasm for the theatre he cannot quite share, _especially_ not for Philomena Cheer ( soon to be Mrs Cooke, her upcoming marriage to one of his old adversaries is the true reason behind her retirement. )

Nor is he particularly fond of Shakespeare- he has never quite forgiven the man for what he did to the youngest of the three York princes in order to please his Tudor-queen.

History, as is well known, is written by victors.

He frowns at the idea that someday someone might feel called to create a completely distorted picture of himself and his role in this war, too- cast him as the villain in a bad stage play in order to make his former adversaries look like good men in comparision.

This is one of the reasons why he has begun to write a book about his accomplishments as commander of the Queen's Rangers.

However, for now it seems he has other duties to perform. And it would take a crueller man to deny his ladies such small pleasures, which, after all, won't cost him a thing.

Leaning on each other for support, the three make it up the stairs, he and Lola panting heavily by the time they reach the second floor.

"Just look at us," he chuckles dryly with a quick glance at the wall mirror- something he otherwise avoids to do too often lately.

He has lost weight, twenty pounds at least, and even paler than usual and in his black civilian clothes he can't help but think that he looks like his own undertaker.

"Look at _me_ ," Lola groans and thrusts out her considerable belly. "I'm a whale."

"Nonsense," he snorts. "You're beautiful."

"Absolutely," Cat confirms with a smirk. "The most beautiful whale I've ever seen."

"A few more weeks and you'll no longer be laughing," Lola grumbles. "Just you wait."

The two girls share an affectionate smile and he smiles as well.

He is happy when they are happy, and also, that they obviously like each other so much, yet sometimes- _sometimes_ , there's this nasty little voice in his head telling him they would probably get along just as well without him, that he needs them in fact far more than they need him.

He is usually successful at ignoring it, as he does with other unpleasant thoughts, memories of events he still can't tell if they were real or mere products of his feverish delirium.

Hewlett sneaking into his cabin on the 'Bonetta', an apple in one of his hands, a knife in the other, is the scariest and most vivid of them.

But no. This cannot have happened.

He has been dreaming, they have told him so all over again.

Sometimes, he thinks he still is.

But if all this a dream, he doesn't want to wake up.

He knows he has to return to England eventually, if only in order to secure a new commission, but of course he cannot leave until the babies are born, and then, he knows, he quite certainly won't.

But that's fine.

One way or another,everything is going to fall into place.

For now, all he needs to think of is his big bed in his room, the two adorable ladies who will soon occupy it, and his duty to entertain them with Shakespeare.

"My back hurts," Lola proclaims with a groan. "Let's go to bed already."

"Yes," he smiles and pulls the two girls right and left to him into a tight embrace. "That's a very good idea."


End file.
